


For the Best

by prototyping



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I call it "shippy but they don't realize it", canon AU, it's more towards platonic than legit shippy but close enough, one day, one day I'll write something strictly happy for them, some violence but not my worst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 01:37:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16822507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prototyping/pseuds/prototyping
Summary: They’re the qualities she’s come to respect and admire the most about him, the one whom she can’t—and never wants to—imagine herself living without. [Sorey, Alisha]





	For the Best

Sorey finds her in a tent on the edge of camp.

It bothers him that hers seems so far removed from the rest. He would have expected her to be closer to the center with the higher-ranking officers, or at least with the rest of the knights, but she’s been stationed nearly on the border, hardly a stone’s throw away from the recently erected walls.

He isn’t the only one to notice. Mikleo mutters some dark comment as Lailah hums sadly and says what they’re all thinking, that the isolated location was very much intentional on someone’s behalf.

Sorey pushes the flap aside, just enough to let his voice in past the pounding rain. “Alisha? You here?”

The reply is so late in coming that he assumes she isn’t. He’s started to step away when he finally hears, “Yes. Come in.”

Compared to the constant, bright lightning flashes lighting up the Basin, the tent seems darker than the night despite the two burning lanterns. It’s fairly sized, large enough for a group of people to converse comfortably, but there’s no table, no litter of maps depicting the battlefield like in the other tents. There are only Alisha’s personal effects in one corner—her lance, her bag—and a few commodities.

It seems empty, uncomfortable, a little out of place, much like Alisha herself. She doesn’t look over as Sorey enters; she doesn’t so much as move from where she’s standing in the middle of the room, hands folded in front of her, shoulders slumped, eyes down. She’s as thoroughly soaked as he is.

He doesn’t need to ask what’s wrong. Before he can decide on what to say, she speaks first. “I’m sorry, Sorey. I couldn’t stop this.”

“That’s not your fault.” He closes the distance between them in a heartbeat, unable to help his troubled frown. “You did everything you could—”

“Which counts for nothing.” It isn’t like her to cut him off. There’s anger and reproach in her words, but she sighs sharply and closes her eyes. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to sound cross. You’re not the one I…”

“It’s okay. If it makes you feel better, you can take it out on me.” The remark is as serious as it is casual, both a dismissal and a friendly offer. Alisha shakes her head.

“Please don’t,” she nearly whispers. “I can’t…” She grips her wrist tight enough that her hand shakes, still refusing to look up, and Sorey isn’t sure if she’s holding back tears or frustration. Maybe both.

He sympathizes with her disappointment, even more so with her sense of guilt. It hurts to know that this war was set in motion despite all their best efforts, that many have already died and more will continue to die. It’s frustrating to know that it could have easily been avoided, if only others had listened.

It’s a painful weight to bear, and Sorey doesn’t even have the same personal connection to either country that Alisha does. He sympathizes with her plight, but he doubts that he fully understands the depth of it.

But he doesn’t have to know everything to be here and look after her.

“You’ll catch a cold if you stay like that,” he says softly. She glances in his direction, although not fully, and he can tell there’s a response on her lips but it never makes it out. Her fingers just dig into her sleeves and she doesn’t move.

Sorey takes a step closer, looking her over thoughtfully and with the same respectful smile. After a moment he touches her wrist, and then slips his fingers around it just enough to indicate a tug without actually pulling. Slowly, the tension in her arm relaxes. “May I?” he inquires in the same tone. Now she does look up to stare at him, but she doesn’t object, so he takes her hand and begins working off her vambrace, and then her glove, and then does the same for the other arm.

By then she’s more responsive, perhaps glad for the chance to busy her hands somehow. She unbuttons her cloak and he moves behind her to help her out of it. She removes her tunic, as well, and as she leans down to work on her greaves, he spreads her clothes along the ground in the corner to dry. He’s just as soaked, so he takes off his gloves and mantle and button-up shirt to do the same. It’s a lot colder without the extra layers, wet or not, but he makes no complaint as he rejoins Alisha.

He watches as she lets her hair down, the strands looking more brown than blonde beneath all the water. He retrieves one of her folded blankets, and without a word sets it gently over her head to begin carefully and slowly rubbing her hair dry. For a couple minutes there’s only the sound of the rain on the tent again, the occasional clap of thunder, and voices of passing soldiers.

Her hair’s a disheveled mess when he finishes. He offers an apologetic smile and runs his fingers through it a few times, lightly, trying to work out the tangles. “Sorry, I’m not used to long hair. It’s… different.”

“It’s alright,” she murmurs. She doesn’t look at him then, or when she adds, “Thank you.”

In response he only keeps up his smile. He pushes her hair behind her shoulders, and then as an afterthought tucks some stray strands behind her ears and out of her face. Her skin is cold. “Have you eaten anything?” he asks. When she doesn’t immediately answer, he adds, “It’ll be a lot easier to sleep if you don’t go to bed hungry.”

“I’ll be alright. I’ll eat in the morning.”

Sorey goes on watching her, but she still doesn’t look up. He thought being casual and breaking the mood away from the dreary atmosphere might be what she needs, but it seems he guessed wrong.

He takes her cold hands between his, trying to warm her skin with his own. It makes her smile, a little, and she squeezes back weakly. He takes that as a good sign and gives her hands a gentle shake. “It’ll be okay,” he assures her quietly. “We’ll figure something out. But for now you need to rest, and look after yourself.”

Alisha nods slowly. “I know.” There’s an unspoken _but_ there in her shaky voice. “I know…” Her grip tightens.

Sorey hesitates—not waiting for her, but considering his options. He could keep talking, but he’s not sure words are what she needs right now. He can’t say anything he hasn’t already, anyway.

Sorey hesitates—and then realizes he has no reason to. He withdraws one hand and uses it to cup the back of her head, steadying her as he leans forward and rests his chin on her hair.

He feels her stiffen in surprise, but it’s brief. Her hold on his fingers hurts now—and with a sharp exhale she leans into him and buries her face in his chest.

This time, his arms are around her to hold her.

There aren’t any sobs or words or trembling. She only breathes, in and out, quick and heavy.

“So, should… we…?” comes Mikleo’s uncertain voice.

 _“Sshhh!”_ Lailah hisses.

“I’m sorry,” Alisha mumbles. Her hands tighten into fists, her nails scratching his skin through his thin shirt, but Sorey doesn’t react. “Once again, I can only complain and feel sorry for myself… You’re too kind, always putting up with me like you do.”

“Hey, what else are friends for? I know you’d do the same for me.”

She sighs against him. She sounds exhausted. “It’s just… that I…”

“I know. It’s frustrating,” he says quietly, “and things are starting to feel hopeless. But… for what it’s worth, I don’t buy that just yet. I don’t think hopelessness really exists until every single person has given up—and I haven’t. I know you haven’t, either, no matter how defeated you might be feeling right now. So… don’t let go of your ideals. It’s alright to feel tired and upset, and even to cry—but that’s not the end of it.”

After a few seconds he hears her exhale, but it’s a light sound, and there might be a small smile in it. “You always know what to say,” she murmurs.

“Well, you make it easy. You’re strong enough that I don’t have to say much.”

She hums warmly, probably the closest she’ll come to a laugh, and he considers that a victory. “All the same… I don’t intend to roll over and accept defeat. I only…” Another small sigh. “I suppose even I need to brood sometimes. I’m sorry to have worried you.”

Sorey could say a lot of things in reply to that. She’s more than earned her right to grieve; a bad mood is nothing to apologize for, especially after all she’s had to shoulder in the last week alone.

Instead, he only dismisses her concern in as friendly a manner as he’s able. “No harm in that. I know you’ll pull through just fine.” Sorey retreats just enough to catch her eye, tilting his head with another easy smile and adding playfully, “I know my squire.” Alisha looks pleased by that remark, and he ignores Edna’s deadpan _Jeez, how anticlimactic_ and goes on, “Really, though, it’s pretty late. You should sleep.”

“Yes… I’ll—yes.” Alisha’s smile dims a little as she releases him and steps back out of his immediate space. Without a hint of hesitation, Sorey asks,

“Do you want me to stay?”

Alisha blinks at him. He stares back at her with a look that’s entirely earnest and straightforward, his offer nothing more or less than concern and honest intentions—but she still quickly looks away, rubbing her arms and coloring a little.

Misreading her reaction, Sorey insists, “It’s no trouble—but it’s fine if you don’t, I just—”

“No, I… I would be alright with that,” she hears herself say in a low tone. Then, more boldly, “Rather… please do. If it’s truly no trouble.”

Even if the gossip somehow escalates to something worse than it already is, Alisha can’t bring herself to care anymore. The simple fact of the matter is that she trusts him, and she appreciates his looking out for her as much as she desires to do the same for him, even if he probably doesn’t need that kind of support—from her, at least. Sorey is no fool, either, and surely has no delusions about the risk to his reputation.

He just thinks she’s more important than that.

“I’d be glad to,” he assures her. Suddenly his expression shifts, appearing distracted, and he glances to his left for a couple silent beats. “You sure?” He frowns at the air, puzzled, but then nods. “Okay. Later, then.” Noticing Alisha’s stare, he explains, “The others said they’re leaving for now.”

She feels the heat growing in her face almost faster than she can process it. “The… seraphim? They’ve been here the… whole time…?”

“Yeah,” he replies casually. “They’ve been resting since—Alisha? Are you okay?”

She’s buried her burning face in her hands, biting back a flustered noise. _They were here the whole time so they must have seen everything and this has been far too inappropriate even if we didn’t mean it that way especially when Sorey didn’t mean it that way but even so we’re not in a proper state of dress and he even helped me undress even though it was only—_

“Alisha?” He sounds worried now.

“I-I… Yes… Um…” She peeks over the tips of her fingers, but her eyes stay intently on the ground. “It’s nothing,” she says quickly, quietly, and forces her arms to drop. She can feel him watching her, probably doubting the sincerity of that remark, but he doesn’t push.

“If… you say so.”

There’s only one sleeping mat, but enough spare blankets for Sorey to construct a makeshift one and lay it out beside hers, a respectful yard over. The tent already feels less barren and depressing with him here, the nasty weather a little further away and easier to forget.

When she traveled with them previously, their group occasionally shared one large room when staying at an inn, whenever a lack of vacancy required it. While it was strange at first to sleep in the company of others, Alisha quickly grew accustomed to it, and enjoyed it, even: the comfort of sharing a close space with comrades, the honor of knowing she was trusted to such an extent. Even the small, mundane things left an impression, like Edna’s tendency to cling to her pillow, the sound of Mikleo turning in his sleep, Lailah’s habit of retiring last and rising first. Simple, straightforward, and in a way _surprising_ reminders that seraphim aren’t so different from humans in a lot of ways.

The ground is cold and there’s still a chill in her skin that slipping under the blankets can’t immediately cure, but Alisha’s grateful for the cover from the wind and rain, at least, especially when they start to pick up again. She stares up at the ceiling, but in the corner of her eye watches Sorey pull up his covers to get comfortable. It makes her think of when they first met, when he was so quick to offer his house and even his own bed for her convenience, sacrificing his time and comfort for her sake. A total stranger.

 _Nothing’s changed,_ she realizes. She turns her head to look at him. He’s also lying on his back, arms folded under his head and expression lightly thoughtful. _He’s always giving. Always putting others ahead of himself. Always smiling and trusting and never hesitating. Try as I might to do the same, I..._

He catches her stare and looks over curiously. “Alisha?”

She opens her mouth to apologize, to assure him it’s nothing, to excuse her rude staring—but then she closes it again. He deserves more than dishonesty, but she doesn’t want to burden him anymore than she already has, either.

After a moment, Alisha instead extends her hand along the ground between them, palm-up. Sorey blinks, looking between it and her—and right as she begins to think it might have been a presumptuous gesture, he answers with a smile. Rolling onto his side, he sets his hand in hers and has no qualms with taking a gentle hold.

She replies with a similar grip and smile, but finds she can’t hold his gaze for more than a few seconds before feeling inexplicably shy. She looks away, but disguises the movement as burrowing down deeper into her blanket. 

Chilly though the rest of her is, the warmth of his hand is enough to stave off any more shivers—particularly when she realizes she’s never felt his skin before tonight. The two of them are almost always wearing gloves and proper dress when around each other and there’s never been a reason for contact so casual.

Eyes closed, Alisha considers the hand in her own: made of the same flesh and blood, carrying the same heat of life, marked with the same rough indications of years of weapon-wielding. He’s quelled dozens, maybe hundreds of hellions with that hand, wielding a power the magnitude of which she can only attempt to comprehend with her limited understanding in comparison. And that same hand has helped her up and held her close and touched her in the gentlest, most considerate of ways, ever careful and attentive and not once betraying that he can just as easily shatter the earth and bend the very elements at his beck and call into the most dangerous of forces.

It’s these thoughts that eventually fade into darkness as Alisha finally nears sleep—the last of which, not for the first time, is the amazement and warm pride of knowing that Sorey’s kindness and compassion, his sympathy and open mind and pure conscience, all the things that make him so soft but at the same time solid as stone in his convictions, are _not_ weaknesses, but the driving force behind who he is and what he’ll surely accomplish.

They’re the qualities she’s come to respect and admire the most about him, the one whom she can’t—and never wants to—imagine herself living without.

* * *

Sorey lies awake for an hour or so after Alisha drifts off. He’s tired, more emotionally than anything, but sleep isn’t coming easy anytime soon. Finally he rises and silently moves closer to check on her, still holding her hand.

Her face is set in a light frown. She shivers lightly every so often, clutching her thin blanket close—and he realizes she gave him all the thicker ones for his bedding. With a quiet sigh and a weary smile, he retrieves a couple of them and carefully drapes them over her. Once her shivering stops, he takes one of the lighter blankets for himself, wraps it around his shoulders, and settles in to sit beside her, his back to the tent entrance.

 _Might as well wait to see what Mikleo and the others turn up with._ They apparently left to scout out both camps, since their invisibility would be handy in that regard. Hopefully they would overhear something, any kind of lead they could pursue to try and halt this war once and for all. He feels bad leaving them to walk around in the rain like this, but they were oddly insistent that he stay with Alisha and he sees no reason to argue, especially when he can’t be of much help to them in this matter.

Drawing his knees up, Sorey stares over Alisha at the tent wall. Sometimes he thinks, sometimes he doesn’t think at all and just spaces out as he listens to the drum of the rain all around them, or counts the seconds between each lightning flash and distant roll of thunder. It’s a little mesmerizing, and when he closes his eyes he finds it surprisingly easy to imagine he’s back in Elysia, back before this journey started, when one of his biggest troubles on a daily basis was bad weather hindering his and Mikleo’s ventures outside.

The first and second time he starts to nod off, he shakes himself awake. By the third, he’s convinced himself that he can nap while he’s waiting and the others will wake him when they return. He drops his head forward, onto his arm, and slips into a doze where he is.

He wakes suddenly, muscles tense and mouth dry. For a dazed, half-asleep moment he almost panics when he doesn’t see Alisha, but then his eyes adjust and he notices her asleep at his feet, just as before. He can barely make her out in the dark, but her low breathing says she’s undisturbed.

He leans forward to pull her blankets up higher from where they’ve slipped down—and then he goes still, half-crouched over her, as an unpleasant sensation ripples down his back before pooling inside him and constricting his chest.

The malevolence in the camp has been moderate so far, while that of the nearby battlefield continues to loom on the edge of his senses like a dark wall. This new feeling is neither: it’s separate. Close. A shadow inside a shadow, difficult to pinpoint if he doesn’t concentrate, and his sleep-heavy mind doesn’t make it easy.

But he doesn’t need to think to feel the cold breeze on the back of his neck.

Sorey leaps to his feet and whirls around, but too late: something strikes him in the stomach, fast and hard and silent. The force alone makes him double over, seconds before the pain even registers in his mind, and there’s an odd, bewildering moment in which he tries to make sense of the glint of steel protruding from his side.

He follows the hilt to the gloved hand gripping it, to the arm, and finally up to the face—but there’s a helm instead, and there’s just enough light streaming in through the tent flap for him to recognize the style and colors of Hyland.

_Why..._

The pain hits, white hot and piercing, and Sorey finally finds his voice in a choked gasp.

The soldier stiffens with a startled grunt. _“You?!”_

The pressure of malevolence rises, as does the agony now spreading up to Sorey’s ribs. His body is sluggish, paralyzed by the shock, but his mind flashes faster than the lightning outside.

A Hyland soldier. In Alisha’s tent. Armed. In the middle of the night.

_He didn’t know it was me. He still attacked. Why—_

Taking a step back, the soldier begins to withdraw his knife—but Sorey catches his forearm, _tightly_ , and holds him in place.

“Why… are you—here—” Sorey hisses. The pain, his suspicion, and the anger tied closely to it—it’s all boiling together, threatening to crack the glass lid that he keeps strapped over the worst of his negative emotions.

The soldier jerks his arm back with force this time, but Sorey’s fingers are digging in hard enough to leave dents in the steel of the man’s gauntlet—unconscious strength fueled by the dots that his mind continues to connect as he wakes up fully. He doesn’t know what’s showing through on his face at the moment, but it unnerves the attacker badly enough that he fumbles for the sword at his side.

“Why,” Sorey repeats, his left hand clenching as he channels mana without thinking, “are you _here?_ ” The sword swings and he answers with a point-blank arte to the man’s chest, a blast of water that he couldn’t hope to curb normally, let alone in his disarrayed state.

There’s a sound of crunching metal—as well as something else, something softer and muffled snapping like a twig—and amid a winded cry the soldier goes flying, into the side of the tent—with enough force, it turns out, to tear the pegs from the wet earth, and the thick canvas ends up going with him. Cold rain hits Sorey like a kick in the back. A startled yelp announces Alisha’s waking.

The next few moments are chaos: soldiers yelling, Alisha calling his name, and someone else, too, further off, and several surprised cries of ”Shepherd!” all while the thunder continues to boom and water weighs him down and freezes his limbs—but Sorey just stumbles forward, clutching one hand over his side, his eyes fixed on where his attacker lay crumpled and dazed halfway across the camp. His anger keeps him going more than anything, a bone-deep shock and rare kind of fury at the thought of what would have happened to Alisha if he hadn’t been there. Someone, one of _her own people_ , and in the middle of a war, tried to—

 _“Sorey!”_ This voice is the loudest, the harshest, and then suddenly Mikleo’s there, gripping Sorey’s biceps tight to force him to a stop. He stares up firmly, his eyes all but sparking with a light that the rest of the night doesn’t reflect. His clothes and hair are drenched and plastered to him, making him look even smaller than usual, but his poise and his glare and the strength in his fingers speak with the same cool authority as his tone. “Sorey, _calm down._ ”

“Calm…?” Sorey blinks. He _is_ calm—isn’t he? And why does Mikleo look so… worried? Suddenly, trying to think makes his head spin. “I’m… I’m not…” He staggers and leans into Mikleo’s hands, which barely keep him upright.

“Hey, easy—what’s—” The seraph’s eyes look down and go wide. “Sorey—!”

Following his stare, Sorey observes that his right hand’s stained with streams of scarlet running between his fingers. Mikleo shoves it aside and tugs up the end of his shirt to reveal the gaping wound just under his ribs—which is bigger and bleeding more heavily than Sorey thought. He’s not sure where the knife went.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. The lightheaded feeling is worse; everything sounds distant and the shadows around the edges of his vision are increasing. “I think I’m… gonna need healing…” His legs give out and he drops where he is as everything goes dark.

Mikleo scrabbles to catch him, but he’s only partially successful as Sorey hits his knees. A quick glance around says most of the camp’s aware of him now: the soldiers are keeping their distance, uncertain after that display of power and probably even more so after Sorey appeared to talk to himself for half a minute. But then there’s one exception.

“Sorey!” Alisha slides to a halt beside him in the mud, watching his face anxiously. “Sorey? Are you—?”

“He’s just unconscious.” Mikleo isn’t surprised when she doesn’t react. Without the pact in place, her resonance is back to its usual low level. And without Sorey to— _Wait._ He spares a hand to take hold of Alisha’s wrist. She jumps and looks right at him, searching and questioning, but her eyes go straight through him.

He directs her hand onto Sorey’s, closing his fingers around both of theirs. “Alisha.” She tenses. “Don’t say anything,” Mikleo adds quickly. “Everyone’s watching and things already look bad. Sorey’s hurt—we need to get him inside somewhere.”

The words are barely out of his mouth when Alisha speaks up, her voice loud and authoritative over the storm. “The Shepherd is injured! You there, help him to the medical tent.”

“Yes, Your Highness—”

“And I want that soldier detained and brought to the general’s tent at once. See that he’s treated, as well. I’ll speak with him myself.”

Mikleo surrenders Sorey over to two soldiers who make quick and careful work of carrying him across the camp. He starts to follow, but slows when he catches sight of Alisha. Her face is grimly set, professional and collected, but he doesn’t miss the cold look in her eyes, or the way her clenched fists shake at her sides. For a moment he wavers, bothered that his words can’t reach her, and considers offering some other sign of reassurance. In the end, he reluctantly leaves her be and hurries after Sorey and his escort.

* * *

The pain isn’t as bad as Sorey would have guessed.

There’s a sharp, aching throb as soon as he wakes, but while it makes him cringe, it’s not worth his voice. He has to practice breathing for a few beats, searching for a pace that minimizes his discomfort. In the meantime he picks up on other things: the sounds of movement and hushed voices and the unceasing rain outside, something soft but flat beneath his head and back, and the ever-constant, uncomfortably dark weight settled firmly on his frame.

“—have been much worse. And he’s quite resilient, besides.”

“He knew the risks of coming here. I’m sure he’ll say it was good luck that he was there when he was.”

Sorey’s tired mind latches onto the latter, more familiar voice. “Mikleo?”

The air around him stirs. “He’s awake!”

“Sorey!”

He blinks his eyes open cautiously, but the lighting is mercifully dim. He doesn’t need long to recognize Rose on his left and Mikleo on his right, both looking down at him with varying expressions of relief. “Hey,” he greets thickly.

Within a few minutes he convinces them to let him sit up, but doing so makes him wince—not at the pain in his side, but at the level of malevolence in the area. It’s not the thickest he’s encountered, but it’s unpleasant nonetheless and makes him teeter for a moment before he catches his breath. The medical tent is meant for healing, but it’s also a place of death and grief.

His friends inform him that it’s morning, some six hours after he passed out. His stomach’s been wrapped in gauze, but what threat his injury posed to begin with is safely null and void after being treated with seraphic artes.

“What happened to that soldier?” Sorey looks to Rose as he says it, figuring from habit that she would be the first to know anything. He isn’t disappointed.

“Officially, he’s been detained for questioning regarding a disturbance,” she answers, “but my bet’s that the higher-ups don’t want to steal attention away from the war, so they’re downplaying the incident as well as the arrest.”

His face darkens. “Do you think he’ll get away with it?” The attempt on his own life was clearly an accident, but if Alisha’s still in danger—

“Doubt it. Assuming he wasn’t acting on his own, then whoever sent him after Alisha most likely isn’t going to stick their neck out for a common footsoldier. They’ll leave him with all the blame, especially since he failed.” Rose keeps her voice low, casting casual glances about the area.

Sorey gives a discontented hum. It isn’t a matter he can feel happy about either way. “I don’t get it.” He also minds his volume. Most of the nearby cots are empty, but he doesn’t want to attract attention anymore than he wants to be overhead. “As much as she hates it, Alisha’s lending her strength to this war. Why would Hyland target her?”

“They may not have,” Mikleo reasons. “The order could have come from Rolance. Apparently spies and turncoats aren’t uncommon in these kinds of conflicts.”

Rose hums her agreement. “Or maybe Bartlow thinks she’s still a threat to the army’s morale. Who knows? The deeper you delve into politics, the more complicated and uglier the answers get.”

“I’m starting to see that.” It’s an ugly truth indeed, but it doesn’t dampen Sorey’s spirits for long. He’s alive, Alisha’s alive, and that’s what matters. “Where is she, anyway?”

“She was here for most of the night,” Mikleo tells him. “She was summoned about an hour ago.”

For a moment that worries him—she hasn’t been sent out onto the battlefield yet; if that happens, what will she do?—but with perfect timing Sorey spots Alisha approaching. She’s fully dressed again, but he can tell from a glance at her face that she hasn’t had any more rest. The moment she sees him, she speeds up, and Mikleo only barely leans aside in time to keep her from plowing into him.

“Sorey!” She grasps his arm with an anxious, sorrowful expression, eyes wide and searching his face. “Are you alright? How’s your injury?”

“It’s fine,” he says easily. “It isn’t too bad. Lailah says I’ll be up within the day.”

She sighs in relief, her slender shoulders appearing to lose some invisible weight. “I’m glad,” she says with a sad smile. “Can I get you anything?”

“I’m okay. But what about you? I heard you were called.”

She shakes her head. “Just some bureaucratic nonsense. Nothing to do with last night.”

Sorey doesn’t hide his troubled frown. “Are you being sent to fight?”

“No.” She doesn’t look at him as she says it. “Not yet.”

Her hands are still on his arm; he places his own over them both, offering her a sympathetic smile. She meets it, holds it, and then slowly returns it, a knowing and grateful look.

And then remembering—or perhaps just now noticing—Rose’s presence, Alisha suddenly glances over at her, straightens up, and clears her throat. “Oh—please, forgive me, I didn’t mean to intrude—”

Rose waves dismissively and climbs to her feet. “I was just on my way out,” she replies cheerfully, an oddly teasing smile on her face. She hooks her arm inside Mikleo’s and drags him up out of his chair.

“Hey—!”

“C’mon, let ‘em have their moment. You, too,” she tosses over her shoulder at Lailah, who appears to pout for a moment before following suit. Alisha watches Rose go with a puzzled look, but doesn’t question before taking Mikleo’s seat at Sorey’s side.

“Sorry about your tent,” he tells her, half-jokingly, in an attempt to cut off the somber mood before it can settle in fully. “I, uh, kind of overdid it.”

Alisha stares at him. It seems she missed the humor entirely. “No, think nothing of it—that should be the least of your worries…”

“You’re alright, aren’t you? No harm done?” When she slowly nods, Sorey smiles again. “Then there’s nothing to worry about.”

She fidgets, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “But only because you were there. Thank you, Sorey—but... I’m terribly so—”

“Stop there.” His objection is a gentle one.

She blinks at him. “What?”

“Just stop there,” he repeats, “at the thank you. That’s enough.”

With a quiet, tired sigh she shakes her head, eyes closing. “You shouldn’t have been hurt,” she murmurs. “He was there for me.”

“And he didn’t get to you.” He resumes his unassuming hold on her hand, prompting her to look up. “That’s all I care about. So there’s no need to apologize for something that turned out for the best.”

“The best…”

“Besides… if we only focus on what _could_ have happened, we’ll miss what’s in front of us.” He gives her an easy grin. “And I think we have our hands full enough as it is.”

Her stare lingers on his face for a long moment, searching for something. Perhaps she finds it, since there’s a shadow of a smile when she finally glances aside. “...You’re right, once again. There’s no time to dwell on what can’t be changed. Not when there’s a war to stop.” She gives a small, almost amused hum. “I’ll ask for your forgiveness in advance; I may well come to you again the next time I find myself sulking. You’re quite effective at setting me straight.”

“No apology needed,” he says brightly. “You’re never an inconvenience, Alisha.”

There’s a warm sort of glow in her face at that, but it soon sobers as she asks, “What will you do now, once you’ve recovered?”

That’s a good question, Sorey thinks. He looks past her at the dozens of soldiers lying injured throughout the tent, some surely dying, and at the shorthanded medical staff bustling back and forth between them all. Suddenly the malevolence pressing on his chest feels that much heavier.

“Like you said, find a way to stop this,” he says quietly. It’s only been a day since the war officially started and the casualties are already this high... “Somehow.”

“I’m certain if anyone can, it’s you, Sorey.”

He smiles at her, but his heart isn’t quite in it this time. She means well, but the reality of the situation is weighing heavily on him as it is. Despite all the optimism he’s given her, he’s inwardly a little hypocritical, and not above the strain of guilt and doubt. Is there something he could have done to stop the conflict before now? Is there still something he’s overlooking?

Alisha surprises him by catching on. “Oh—no, I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry. I don’t mean to place any pressure on you. What I should have said… what I meant was that you can count on me to help in any way I can.” She takes his hand between both of hers, her smile soft and trusting and the brightest he’s seen it lately. “Of all the people on this battlefield, you have the least obligation to put yourself forward, and yet… here you are.” Her fingers grasp his firmly and fondly. “Always. And I’ll be beside you just as long.”

Sorey wants to agree with that. He doesn’t doubt her loyalty, and in a perfect world they could very well remain side-by-side.

But this world isn’t perfect. It’s suffering and spiraling towards collapse, and after all he’s seen, he’s starting to suspect what will be required to save it. He hasn’t totally finalized his thoughts yet; he hasn’t told them to anyone, either, not even Mikleo, but in a way he’s already decided. He already knows what he’ll have to do, and what he’ll have to lose.

He won’t try to lie to her—but as he returns her smile and her gentle grip and answers with her same warmth, he isn’t being totally honest, either.

“...Thanks. I know you will.”


End file.
